“I forbid this! Forbid it!” He wheezed, his face turning purple.
“You’re too late for that, Jevons.” Answered Mason, running a suggestive hand slowly up and down her hip. “You’d best send for the priest and make it legal.”
Then it dawned on her, that was what they thought! She felt herself blush. They thought he had simply walked in, tossed her skirts up, and had his way with her! What manner of man did they think he was? Correction, what manner of man did they think her betrothed was? A tiny trickle of panic ran down her spine. Ah well, too late now. She had propositioned him! “F-father Stephens should be arriving any minute,” she stammered in a low voice meant only for her intended. Her uncle was yelling and ranting and sending poor Cuthbert for his wife, her aunt. She shuddered at the thought of her aunt’s squawking and screaming being added to the fray. His brother hovered unhappily on the edge of her vision, Mason Vawdrey however, seemed unconcerned.
“Is the ceremony to be held up here?” he asked, focusing purely on her as everything around them was plunged into chaos.
Her throat went dry so she merely nodded, gazing up at him. “Yes. There is a castle chapel, but because of my health they gained permission to hold the ceremony here. I’m sorry it’s so dark,” she told him. “You see, it’s for my health.”
He nodded briefly. “Jevons,” he said sharply without taking his eyes from her face. “If you don’t stop that caterwauling I will send you from the room.” Her uncle gasped sharply before his jaw snapped shut. Then Mason took her hand and led her over to the fire. “Oswald, a word.” His brother appeared by their side as Mason started chafing her cold hands lightly between his. “You’ll stand as my groomsman,” he told, rather than asked, him.
“Of course, Brother,” Oswald seemed slightly bewildered. Linnet took a good look at her prospective brother in law. He seemed shocked and couldn’t quite meet her gaze. Obviously he was more of a stickler for decorum than Mason, who seemed to be taking his impending marriage entirely in his stride. She watched, fascinated, as Mason’s large tanned hands entirely engulfed hers.
“Still cold?” he asked her, frowning. She shook her head. She wasn’t trembling from the cold. It was all starting to sink in now and Linnet’s heart was beating frantically. She felt heat rise up her neck to her face and it was as much as she could do to remain standing on her own two feet. When she swayed, his hand shot out and gripped her arm like a vise until she was steady. Then he released her again and turned back to his brother. They spoke of court and delaying their return. She found it hard to focus on the actual words. She couldn’t believe she had propositioned such a terrifying man and now they were to be married! Unsure what to do, she dared to glance at Cuthbert who was staring at her husband-to-be in open-mouthed admiration. Then her gaze travelled to her uncle who was glaring in her direction with an expression of mute fury. Linnet’s heart sank as she heard female voices on the stair and realized her aunt and her troop of ladies in waiting were on their way up. “I’m sorry about all this,” she whispered to Mason, touching her hand to his sleeve. “They all make rather a fuss I’m afraid.”
“They can try,” he answered grimly and turned his hard gaze to the entrance where the ladies were flooding in.
“My goodness child!” screeched her aunt. “Where is your headdress?”
She opened her mouth to reply but Mason forestalled her.
“What business is it of yours, Madam?” he asked brusquely. “I dislike it and she’ll not wear it again in my presence!”
Her aunt stared at him speechlessly. “But her hair,” she pointed out. “That awful degenerate shade!”
Linnet flinched but Mason didn’t miss a beat.
“Her hair?” he snorted. “It little signifies.”
There was an audible gasp from her aunt’s ladies and Linnet’s eyes nearly popped out. He surely lied, but she vowed from that moment to be the very best wife that Mason Vawdrey could ever have taken. Let him never regret his choice, she wished fervently, tears pricking her eyes. She would never, never forget his generosity of spirit and noble sacrifice on her behalf!
III
She was a poor little dab of a female, thought Mason as he reluctantly drew the old cracked signet off his little finger and then pushed it onto hers. Even on her middle finger it was loose. She needed more meat on her bones. He made a silent note to buy her a ring more suited for purpose. This was one he had had from boyhood. It was proof of his father’s acceptance of his bastard and the only ring he wore. The seal depicted the Vawdrey panther, though it was faded and cracked through. Linnet passed a finger over it reverently as if it were a ruby and then smiled at him. He frowned slightly and turned back to the priest who was bidding them to be fruitful and multiply. His gaze returned to Linnet—his wife. He leant forward and placed a chaste kiss on her bloodless lips. It was done. He offered her his arm and she clung to it as if her life depended on it. Her uncle and his harridan wife were fit to spit. Mason’s lip curled with contempt. Well, he knew what to do about them. When they drew level he turned to address Sir Jevons. “Get out,” he snarled.
“What?” spluttered the older man, his face turning even more purple.
“You have until sunset to get you, your wife, and everything that belongs to you—but only what belongs to you—out of the castle,” he elaborated coolly, ignoring Linnet’s faint gasp from his side.
Lady Jevons let out an indignant squawk. “So this is how it’s to be, is it? Thrown out of our own home . . . ” She turned a face twisted with anger to her niece. “See what you’ve done?” she cried. “You stupid, wicked girl! This is how you repay the tender care we have given you?”
“Don’t bother answering her,” Mason cut across coldly as Linnet opened her mouth to respond. “Keys,” he said, holding out his hand to the red-faced woman. “Hand over the keys to the castle.”
Lady Jevons spluttered. He pointed wordlessly to the large chatelaine at her belt.
“This was my sister’s,” she argued.
“And should now pass down to her daughter,” he cut her off.
“I have several items in the strong room,” interrupted Sir Jevons stiffly. “How am I retrieve them if you take the keys from Millicent?”
“You will be unable to retrieve them without supervision,” answered Mason coolly. “And without proof that any item in the strong room belongs to you.”
Lady Jevons handed over the silver chatelaine from which the keys were suspended, her hands quivering with fury. Mason leant down and clipped it directly to Linnet’s own belt.
“I want to show you something.” He led her resolutely down the steps to the first landing.
“If you venture outside she’ll get an inflammation of the lungs,” shouted her uncle. “You don’t understand how sickly she truly is.”
“I don’t normally venture below stairs,” Linnet admitted timidly.
He looked back at her with impatience before drawing her to the arrow loop he had paused beside earlier. “What do you see?”
She peered out of the narrow slit in the wall. “The tents,” she answered dutifully. “For the wedding celebrations.”
“There are only two tents out there, Linnet,” he answered gravely.
“What?” she turned back to him. “Whatever do you mean?” Her breath was coming in small pants now. “There must be more! My uncle said the whole estate would celebrate the nuptials!”
“They’ve been deceiving you,” he answered harshly. “Probably for years.”
Her eyes flew wide and she stared up at him before turning back to the view outside. He watched as she moistened her lips. “How—?”
“On our approach I wondered at the two solitary tents and where they had been set up. It seemed a strange location. On my way up here, it occurred to me. It was almost as if they had been perfectly placed so that anyone with this view and only this view would see them.” He paused letting his words sink in. “They were put there purposely. For you. I can assure you the re
st of the castle is quite deserted.”
Linnet swung back round to face him. “But . . . but the vassals? Our neighbors, the tenants on my lands . . . ”
“None of them have been invited.”
She drew a deep steadying breath. “My uncle assured me that all would celebrate below stairs on the event of my marriage.”
“Secure in the knowledge that you would never venture below stairs.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I can scarcely believe it!” she whispered. “But why?”
He scratched his jaw, leaning one shoulder against the stone. “Can’t you guess?” he asked indifferently.
Tears stood out in her eyes as she stared back at him. Misery in those green depths. “No,” she answered, raising her chin.
“I think you can.”
“I want to see,” she said quietly. “With my own eyes, I want to see it.”
He shrugged. “Do you have a cloak?” he asked, mindful of her uncle’s words.
“I never go outside,” she reminded him.
“Boy!” he shouted, not taking his eyes off her.
The page appeared on the steps above them. “Milord?”
“Fetch your mistress a cloak. Someone else’s cloak.”
Cuthbert jumped from one foot to the other as he considered this request.
“Now, boy,” growled Mason, who was not accustomed to waiting. Cuthbert took off with alacrity.
“You are used to giving orders,” she observed quietly.
“I’m a general in King Wymer’s army.”
“A general? In the late campaign in the North?” she asked.
He was a little surprised she even knew of the uprising in the North. “Yes.”
She stared at him gravely and he thought she was taking a good measure of the man she had married. Bit late for that now, little peahen. He leant his wide shoulders against the stone wall behind him, crossed his arms and let her look her fill. In return, he gazed back letting his eyes travel up and down her slight figure. In truth, he wasn’t horrified at the bargain he had made. She wasn’t fainting or hysterical like the rest of the household seemed to be. Now that she had that hideous headdress removed, she looked far more personable. True, she was plain and the freckles almost obscured her every feature. The disastrous hair was braided tight and twisted into a crown on the back of her head. It was a bright shade of red and gleamed like fiery gold. He wondered what it would look like released from those confining braids. Her hands, he noticed, were white and ostensibly the only parts of her on view that weren’t smattered with an array of unsightly freckles. He noticed that at some point she had passed a thin red ribbon through his cracked signet ring and then tied it around her wrist so she would not lose it. His eyes jerked back to hers and he found her watching him with a faint frown. He had to look closely to catch it as her eyebrows were so fair it was almost like she had none.
“Are you a widower?” she said, surprising him with her directness.
He shook his head. “You forget, I am a bastard. I’ve not had many eligible maidens thrown my way.”
Instead of rushing to dismiss this out of politeness she seemed to digest it with a thoughtful nod. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
She waited patiently for him to respond in kind, but truth was he didn’t really care how old she was. He had married her lineage. Her lands. Her title in abeyance. Though if he was to get a son on her he supposed age would be a factor.
“I’m four and twenty,” she said obviously tiring of waiting.
His eyebrows shot up. “You look younger.”
“You are a more suitable age than Sir Roland at least,” she said. “I was worried about having a younger husband.”
Roland was twenty-two. A very young and indulged twenty-two.
“He would have made you a terrible husband,” he said surprising himself. Though in truth, Roland had been spoiled and coddled all his life, which was something Linnet could probably relate to. Roland would have made a far more compatible bridegroom than he himself, Mason was sure. Still, Linnet looked up at him trustingly as though she accepted his every word on face value. More fool her.
“A cloak, milord,” said Cuthbert proudly from the steps above them. The dratted child must have crept down like a mouse. He took it, and Linnet turned so that he could drape it around her shoulders.
“It has no hood,” she said sadly.
He looked at her sharply. “It is not raining. Will you take a chill so easily?”
She blushed. “I was thinking of my hair.”
“It’s neat and tidy, that’s all that matters,” he said shortly and offered his arm. She took it and they descended the stairs with Cuthbert skipping after them.
Once outside the tower they made their way across the outer courtyard that that led to the two lone, striped tents fluttering gaily in the breeze. Linnet’s lips were pressed together but she kept up with him gamely enough. She blinked a good deal at the daylight and had to raise a hand to shield her eyes at first but this soon dropped away as she accustomed herself. The sun was still high in the sky. There was a curious, almost ominous, lack of servants or household members about, although there were some horses, pigs, and chickens scattered about. It was an expansive space, and Mason realized the castle was at least twice, if not three times, as big as his own father’s. It was a satisfying thought. They entered the first tent and then the second. Both were empty and completely devoid of refreshments or furnishings.
“I can scarcely believe my uncle told me so many untruths!” Linnet exclaimed indignantly.
Mason made no comment though he noticed a spot of color in her cheeks and a spark in her eye, suited her. On exiting the second tent they made their way towards the main cluster of buildings again but did not head for Linnet’s tower this time. “Take us to the great hall, Page.” He instructed Cuthbert. The boy ran around them so he was now leading the way.
“It was a deliberate deception then,” Linnet said aloud.
“Yes.”
“I’m glad now—yes, glad! That you’ve thrown them out! And to think,” she marveled. “You took one look and deduced the truth.” She stared up at his profile a moment until he glanced down at her. “Your training as a soldier perhaps?” She hazarded.
“Perhaps,” he shrugged.
“Remarkable.” She lapsed into a thoughtful silence and he had to slow his pace to match hers when she started to flag as they reached the stone steps leading to the inner courtyard. She pressed a hand to her side and he realized she had probably never walked so far before.
“Boy!” The page stopped and wheeled around. “We will allow her ladyship to catch her breath.” He scanned the horizon, raising his hand to his brow. Off in the far distance he could see laborers in the fields farming her lands. His lands.
“They shouldn’t be there,” she said seeing the direction of his gaze. He looked down in surprise. “They should be here. It should be a feast day for them. Their feudal lord is getting married.” Her cheeks were flushed with chagrin. “Uncle told me they would all be here at a celebratory feast.”
He supposed that was customary although his own father was not such a generous overlord. “A feast you would not attend,” he pointed out.
She bit her lip. “It was accounted for in my ledger,” she said darkly. “Both the loss of labor and allowing for their meat and ale.”
He felt a flicker of surprise that she kept the household accounts. He would have thought her aunt would have held the reins. No doubt the one who took the actual coin from her coffers was Jevons. And then pocketed it himself. Mason left this unsaid, but he had no doubt she was forming her own conclusions. It seemed that despite her sheltered upbringing, perhaps she was not quite the fool he’d assumed. “Are you ready?” he asked.
She looked up. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
He offered his arm and she took it again, marching determinedly by his side. Cuthbert was fizzing with excitement ahead of them. Mason followed the li
ttle blond page as they sailed through the entrance and past the great chambers. Clearly Linnet was not at all acquainted with this, the main stronghold of her own castle. Her head swiveled around and she seemed more curious to see it than he. The apartments were well furnished, the tapestry hangings well maintained, and the rushes on the floor clean and pleasant smelling. More servants were scurrying around in these quarters, going about their business. Their eyes stood out as if on stalks when they watched their progress.
“Lady Linnet and Sir Mason Vawdrey of Cadwallader Castle,” proclaimed Cuthbert loudly whenever anyone looked poised to hurry over and demand an explanation. It crossed Mason’s mind that several of the staff here had probably never even laid eyes on Linnet. A strange setup indeed! He glanced down at her as they entered the great hall. Her eyes were very bright and flared when they found a hubbub of servants milling around polishing pewter goblets and plates at the long table. They paused on the threshold as the servants all froze and stared back at them.
“But where is the feast?” asked Linnet. She looked up at him. “Surely they would have offered Sir Roland some hospitality?”
“Perhaps your uncle meant to receive him in his private quarters?” he suggested dismissively. He looked around to find an efficient looking man clad in a blue tunic lurking in the corner with a frown on his face. “You! Come here. Your name?”
“My name is Robards, sir. Cecil Robards,” he said approaching quickly, a light flush on his cheeks. He was about thirty years old with thinning hair and an air of competency.
“Robards?” echoed Linnet. “You are the castle steward. I recognize your name from my ledger.”
He bowed. “The very same, Lady Linnet.”
“This is my husband. Sir Mason Vawdrey.”
He bowed again, this time in Mason’s direction. “Your servant, sir.”
“I do not understand. Where are the preparations for the wedding feast, Robards?” she asked. “Where was the Vawdrey party to be put up?”
Robards darted a quick look towards Mason and licked his lips nervously.
Her Baseborn Bridegroom Page 2
